Some Nights
by The Periodic Table of Converse
Summary: Mattie is tired of living her life in the shadows. That is, until she tries to commit a crime and her life is ripped out from underneath her feet. Suddenly she finds there is nothing she misses more than being the last thing on anybody's mind. But something has to change, because Mattie's life isn't going to revert back to normal until her troublemaking days are over. One-shot.


December 12th, 2013

**Title: Some Nights**

**Summary: Mattie is tired of living her life in the shadows of everybody else. That is, until she makes plans to pull off a heist and her life is ripped out from underneath her feet. Suddenly she finds there is nothing she misses more than being the last thing on anybody's mind. But something has to change, because Mattie's life isn't going to revert back to normal until her troublemaking days are over.**

*O*

_Some nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck  
Some nights I call it a draw  
Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle  
Some nights I wish they'd just fall off_

_But I still wake up, I still see her ghost__  
__Oh, Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for, oh__  
__What do I stand for? What do I stand for?__  
__Most nights I don't know anymore..._

*O*

Some days, I think that maybe Life hates me. Like when I got food poisoning on Thanksgiving, or when I got tossed in juvie for shoplifting from a 7-eleven. I suppose it's only fair, because I hate Life right back on those kinds of days, with everything I have. It's a lot of hate being exchanged when this happens, normally because I'm grounded for mouthing off to Mother and I'm being angsty or something stupidly teenage like that.

Other days, I think that maybe I just did something to offend Life. Maybe I did something that made Life mad those kinds of days, like when I bought Mr. Lazarra a gag gift for our Secret Santa program at school. So then, all I have to do is do a good deed- like walk the new kid to their class when they're lost- or maybe donate to charity.

And last but not least, I think that Life is _almost_ always forgiving. Forgiving of things like when I steal a bag of Snickers bars and fifty bucks from 7-eleven or when I buy Mr. Lazarra a Barack Obama bobble head for Christmas, even though I know he's republican and he complains about our current president pretty much every minute he's not teaching us social studies. Maybe it's harder to forgive somebody for telling their mother that they hate her than it is to forgive buying a stupid present for somebody you don't like anyways, but Life seems to have the art of accepting a sorry and a good deed or two down pat.

But today, I think that maybe, I might be on Life's hit-list. And today, I want to tell Life to go eat a rag, because today is one of those days when Life isn't taking any of my antics.

*O*

"Mattie."

Somebody's calling my name. Why is somebody calling my name?

"Mattie!"

Have I done anything illegal recently? No… unless… no, nobody could have found out about that…

"_Mattie!"_

I guess maybe putting a snapping turtle in the bathroom at the police station could be illegal… I _am_ the only suspect. Assaulting an officer with a turtle from PetSmart… do they have a charge for that?

"_Matilda!"_

Ooh, full first name. I must have done some serious stuff. Could she have somehow…?

"_Matilda Delia Cook, I want to see your face downstairs in ten seconds or so help me!"_

Okay. Full name now. I cringe. I hate my middle name. Delia… well, that sounds like the name of a flower-picking girly-girl daughter. At least _'Mat'_ looks kind of cool in neon graffiti on the side of a wall. Delia… What was Mother thinking?

Anyways, Mother must be serious if she's suddenly throwing my middle name around like it's all of a sudden not a taboo word that comes with the warning: Discuss this topic and suffer the consequences of Matilda and Lucille Cook both. We have a kind of agreement that the name doesn't suit me- like, at all- and therefore it's only used when serious stuff is about to go down.

I scramble out from underneath the heavy cocoon of blankets on my bed. Call me motivated if you want, but Mother knows exactly how to get under my skin.

"_What_, Mother? What is so important that you need to talk to me at," I shoot a tired glance at the Mickey Mouse alarm clock ticking away on my bedside table. Beside it rests a lukewarm glass of water and a picture of my mother and a dark skinned African American woman hugging in a picture frame. "Two fifty seven in the morning?! I have school tomorrow!"

Mother shoots me an appraising and very cold look, like I did something wrong. How does she know I did anything? Does she have proof? But then her expression softens and she looks… sorrowful? No, regretful. "Matilda, what have you been doing to yourself?" She asks, worry lines crinkling on her forehead. There is a distinct purple shading to the bags under her eyes that make her pale and tired looking skin sag.

Lesson number one of a life of lies and thievery: Deny, hide the evidence, and deny some more. And maybe pin the blame on someone else who might have a shady character, like that weird kid who wears trench coats and beige fedoras and sells watches behind the dumpster at school.

"What are you talking about?"

Mother frowns sharply. "I heard about what you did, Matilda. I'm extremely disappointed in you."

I'm cautious when I ask my next question. "What did I do then Mother?"

"The chief of police is furious."

"What are you talking about?" I snap harshly at my mother, one out of many people who never notice me until I do something I'm not supposed to do. Mother runs a tired hand down her face. I have no idea what's going on. "Look, if this is about that snapping turtle, I'm sorry, I won't-"

Mother cuts me off with a sharp frown. "What is this about a turtle?"

"Nothing." I insist quickly. "What's got the chief of police's pants in a twist?"

Mother lets out a breathy huff of air. "Mattie…"

"_What?! _What are you trying to tell me?!"

"Stealing? From your own school too? Matilda Cook, this is _not_ how I raised you to act. Back in my day, girls were good, and obedient, and never tried to cause trouble for their mothers!"

She lets out a puff of resigned breath.

"I'm sending you to live with Eliza. Until this blows over with the chief of police, Mattie, I think you need to take a break from Philadelphia. You can't just go around doing whatever you please!"

I ignore her, turn on my heel and slam my bedroom door behind me. _Watch me, Mother. Because you may know just how to get under my skin, but I know just how to prove you wrong._

*O*

"Mattie, I'm sorry, and you know I love you, but you tried to rob the school funds from the office. What does that say about you? If I were the chief of police, I'd probably be sick of your antics too."

I cross my arms angrily- and somewhat foolishly- over my chest and shoot a blistering glare at my best friend, Nathaniel Benson, who is normally always on my side. I am his only friend, and he is my only friend. This time though…he's betraying me for the enemy. He agrees with the enemy. I probably make him sick.

"Fine." I snap at him, and begin gathering my books.

He looks over at me, startled. "Where are you going?"

I shove my schoolwork into my backpack, throw my lunch back into its nondescript brown paper bag and stand up from the cafeteria table. His expression turns to one of panic when I shove my chair under the table and make to leave.

"I don't sit with traitors."

*O*

The flight across Pennsylvania is tiring, what with the guy a couple of rows ahead of me puking every few minutes, but it's short, and for this I am thankful. Thanksgiving is approaching - I will have to remember to mention this before dinner.

I disembark last, after a mother and a little girl, lugging along a heavy bag- most of the contents are rather helpful for pulling off a heist. Like rope and a ski cap. I remember the words I thought right after Mother told me I would be staying with Eliza, a close family friend of Mother's, for a few months.

I will find a way to put my things to good use.

_Watch me, Mother. Because you may know just how to get under my skin, but I know just how to prove you wrong._

Yes, I plan on proving her wrong out here, and revenge on the chief of police is going to be sweet when I finally get home. But for now, I have to act as though I am improving.

"Hello? I'm looking for an Eliza. Have you seen her?" I drift through the crowd of people at the baggage claim, asking for the dark-skinned, cheerful woman I have met only once before. The people I ask just shake their heads impatiently and step around me, having spotted their luggage moving slowly along the conveyor belt.

I stand for a minute, unsure of what to do. Mother hadn't even given me a picture before she stuck me on an airplane, wished me a safe flight and hightailed it out of the airport before I could yell anything back at her.

Eventually - I guess I must have looked hopelessly lost, like the kids I would walk to class when they were new - a woman approached me. "Are you Mattie?" She asked me cautiously. Maybe she had gotten some pretty rude replies too. At my nod, she beamed. "I'm Eliza. It's so good to see you again, sweetheart!" And with a dramatic flourish, I was pulled into a big hug.

So Eliza was the one in the picture on my bedside table.

"Oh, um, yeah. Good to see you too." _I guess…_ Eliza seems a little too enthusiastic to be healthy.

"We're going to be such good friends. You can help me out around the coffee shop I run. I know your mother probably made this sound like a lot of work and made me out to be really strict, but don't worry," Eliza winks at me. "You just enjoy yourself while you're out here."

I shrug, unsure of what to say. Does she know that I'm supposed to be out here getting whipped into shape?

"Alright, I guess so."

*O*

A week here with Eliza, in only God knows where, and I still have yet to figure what to steal, or break. Everything here looks so rundown or old that nothing is worth my time. I wonder how much progress Mother has made with the chief of police back home. Maybe he's already stopped slamming the door in her face when she shows up at the station.

Every day, it seems like the only words Eliza knows are busy, order and 'Get movin' girl, table seven isn't gonna serve itself'. Of course, that's an exaggeration – she also knows practically every baking ingredient known to man, and then some. Yesterday she had asked me to 'Fetch her some vanilla extract' and when I had told her I didn't know what half of the stuff she used was, she had looked at me weird and shook her head.

So now I get free baking lessons every other afternoon.

I'm starting to think Life's hit on me comes in the form of a perky African American woman with a need to move constantly and a love of bitter black coffee.

*O*

My first day at school comes as a shock to me and practically everyone in the school. I was never told I would be going to school. Nobody else was ever told a new girl was attending their school. And yet, Eliza had the nerve to wake me up at the crack of dawn, inform me to hurry, and then push me towards the bathroom so I could wash up.

I take a rain check – the only body wash Eliza has is cloudy and cheese-scented.

Gross.

I descend the stairs, which lead right into the kitchen of Eliza's tiny coffeehouse. She's already there, waiting for me with a large grin on her face and a pastry in her hand – my breakfast, I assume.

Before I know it, the pastry is stuffed in my mouth and I am standing outside in the blistering and sticky late-summer air, staring down the road in the direction of my so-called 'new school'.

*O*

I figure out quickly enough that this school will be as bad as the one I went to back in Philadelphia. The students are preppy and sorted into the cliché cliques, wandering around in their little clumps before the bell rings to signal first hour. I stand off to the side and try to navigate the jam-packed hallway, with no luck.

Is my first class in the west wing, the east wing, or back in 1793?

I arrive to class three minutes late, and with a considerably sweaty face, partly from running all over and partly because this school has a very shoddy AC system.

The teacher gives me a half-hearted reprimanding, while I try to look abashed, and then I am shooed away to an empty desk in the back corner of the classroom so we can resume watching the film on the tragic 'yellow fever' in early America, which I interrupted.

So far, I have spotted nothing I can nab that will be worth my energy. As far as I can tell, the people who live here are uninterested in the items a life of riches has to offer. Or maybe they just don't have the items a rich life has to offer. Either way, I am stumped.

It's funny how Life works sometimes, because right when I have thought this particular thought, a girl walks through the door. She looks about as posh and proper as a girl in rural Pennsylvania can be. As in, high heeled boots and a silk shirt, and even better, a multitude of diamond jewelry in the form of rings and necklaces and even some kind of ornate hairclip in the shape of a sparkling apple. It makes me think of Nathaniel, who would always steal my apple at lunch, take a monstrous bite out of it, and then offer me some as though it was his to begin with.

I ignore the movie, which is droning on about how a fever victim was recognized by their eyes, which were bloodshot and yellow, and by the way they hallucinated more than they slept. Instead, I keep my gaze firmly locked on the girl, who, now that I think about it, didn't even get so much as a cross word from the teacher.

When class lets out, and the ten-minute passing period begins, I begin my research, scoping out the battered trophy case and the poster of the students that attended this school last year. I find two pieces of vital information from a picture of the cheerleading squad at the homecoming game.

One, the student's name is Opanella Powers. And two, before her father died of a heart attack five years ago, he was rolling in dough. He was the one who donated the money for the school to be built. A definite multi-millionaire.

It seems I have found my target.

*O*

I'd like to say that my troublemaking ways suddenly came to a screeching halt after spending a month and a half out here, slaving away in Eliza's droopy garden and stumbling through school in a daze. There was certainly no time for snooping around in Opanella, or Nell's, as everyone in the school calls her, personal life. And there was definitely no time to decide what I should nab out from underneath the Powers' noses.

So, I am still on the first step of my plan to prove my over-controlling mother wrong during my stay here in nowhere-ville, USA.

This could take a while.

*O*

My first encounter with Opanella 'Nell' Powers is during my free period, which I waste by snooping around and nabbing things from an unsuspecting janitor's cart.

I am making my rounds through the dinky little library when I bump into her – literally. My binders and her stack of books spill out onto the floor, and both of us end up staring at each other and rubbing our sore foreheads. So much for first impressions. I figure she's about half a heartbeat away from a major temper tantrum, like the rich kids at my school in Philadelphia, but instead she smiles apologetically.

Didn't see that coming.

"Sorry. I can hardly see anything past my huge stack of homework." She bends, and brushes all of my things into a neat pile, then hands it to me.

I may be a thieving little crook, but I'm not heartless. So I bend down to help her scoop her books into a stack. An interesting title catches my eye as I am placing a chemistry textbook on top of a pamphlet about good study habits.

"How to Recognize any form of Cancer." I read aloud. The cover image shows an obvious cancer victim. Opanella looks up, startled, and pulls the book from my hands.

"Yeah…" She says nervously.

I watch as she covers the book up with one of her binders. Then she stands, smiles in a very fake way, and makes a mad dash for the door.

*O*

I have developed something of an infatuation with the necklace Opanella is always wearing at school, no matter what. It looks extremely expensive – an ornate silver charm of a doll on a chunky pure silver chain – and obviously would fetch the eye of even the stingiest bidder. It's well cared for, free of tarnish and grime. There are even miniscule diamonds in the place of the eyes.

Talk about gaudy.

A rush of giddiness runs through me, like ice in my veins, and I have to restrain myself from squealing loudly in the middle of Mrs. Ludington's lecture on the New England colonies. I finally have a target. Now it is time to put my plan in action.

*O*

The Powers Manor is grandiose, with mahogany sofas and silver doorknobs. There is even a stained glass chandelier hanging above a grand staircase, which curves elegantly in a wide arc to the second floor of the three-story mansion. All along the front wall of the house, tall arched windows adorned with plum colored drapes and lit with a warm glow grin at passerby. The rightmost one is my entry point, where I have learned from recent investigation that Opanella always keeps one of the panels of glass propped open to let the cool night air in.

The windows are at least seven feet tall and four feet wide, and there are four panels of glass per each one. This gives me a two by three point five square foot opening. Piece of cake.

I slide inside with several fluid motions, which I have gleaned from years of experience. The flooring is a plush carpet, most likely imported from somewhere exotic, like Egypt or Persia. Unsurprisingly, my back making contact with the ground makes no more than a muted thud.

Now, my quest begins.

It takes time, but eventually I find – or stumble upon accidentally – Opanella's room. My hand is on the doorknob and I am ready to turn it and slip inside, when I hear something peculiar. Crying. Somebody is in Opanella's room, sobbing. I go inside.

So call me an idiot. I wasn't thinking.

Opanella sits upon her overly soft bed, clutching a pillow to her chest and crying. On the ground against a wall is the necklace I was here to steal. Now it is shattered, one of the doll's little arms making a crunching sound beneath my sneaker. Oops.

"Nell?"

She looks up, rubbing slowly at her tear-streaked cheeks and sniffling. She does not ask why I am in her house, or why I am dressed in a black shirt and black pants. Or why there is a flashlight clipped to my belt and a ski cap sticking out of my pocket. No, she does not ask me any questions. She walks right up to me, and hugs me.

I am hesitant, but I hug back.

"What's wrong?" I ask carefully.

Opanella smiles at me tearily and scrubs the back of her hand against an eye. She laughs. "Oh Mattie. My mother…" She breaks off, crying into my shoulder.

"What's wrong? What happened to her?"

A deep shuddery breath is taken in by Opanella. "She had cancer. The doctors said it was getting better, so we weren't worried. Then… I don't know what happened. I just walked down to her room, and knocked on the door, and she wasn't answering, so I went inside. And she was just… just _lying_ there, in bed, like she was asleep. Except," Opanella stops to take in another frantic gulp of air. "She wasn't breathing. I called an ambulance. They came in, took one look at her, and one man says, "Time of death, 10:41." I ducked out the door, hid around the neighborhood until they cleared out, and then came back here."

I'm surprised that she is telling me, a girl who was planning to steal her prized necklace while she slept, all of this. Like I said before, I am a thieving little crook, but I am not heartless. So I hug her back because I remember myself in this situation, a year ago, when I got a letter in the mail.

_Captain William Farnsworth Cook, Killed in Action December 12__th__, 2012_. They had sent his dog tags with it.

Opanella cries into my shoulder. "I don't think I've ever told you my name. I'm Nell."

I respond simply.

"I'm Mattie."

*O*

I am unsure of what to do, so I bring Nell with me back to Eliza's coffeehouse. When she answers the door, she takes one look at Nell and ushers us inside. Then, she makes a small pot of soup and listens as Nell repeats her story.

Eliza says nothing to interrupt Nell, and it's clear she doesn't want any questions, so I let my mind wander. Somehow, as absurd as it sounds, I feel the death of Nell's mother was brought on by me. Of course, that isn't true. She died of a sickness, something Mattie had no control over. But… She was going to steal from Nell, until she realized that her mother was dead and saying the girl was in distress over it would just not cut it.

And she had been planning to do something as petty as stealing from them.

What kind of sick person is she, going around and taking things because her mommy doesn't pay attention to her every second of the day? She still made me dinner, and sewed up the tears in my clothes, and did my hair when she could. And here I was, doing everything in my power to cause trouble.

I stand up abruptly, and apologize. There is something I need to do.

*O*

My flashlight and rope make a pleasant splash in the river.

*O*

There is an interesting article that comes out in the news a week later. Eliza points it out to me during breakfast, while I am buttering my muffin, then retreats back to her kitchen to give me some privacy.

_Matilda Cook, a notorious troublemaker and the source of almost all entertainment here in Philadelphia, is out of town for some enlightenment on the proper actions of a lady. For Mattie, who was the discovered source behind the violent snapping turtle named Twig found in the police station's bathroom, it was either shape up or ship out. The girl who was always thinking of more ways to cause mischief, was flown out several months ago to a different part of Pennsylvania, although where sources did not reveal, for some therapeutic work in a more rural setting. Her name was recently cleared by the chief of police, who, after much convincing, has agreed not to press charges. Mattie Cook is changed girl, her coming-of-age story in the form of the death of Elena Powers._

_Mattie, who somehow ended up at Powers Manor the night of the untimely demise of the late Elena, is recognized as the savior of Elena Power's daughter, Opanella, who has told us personally that "without Mattie I don't know what I might have done." Both Matilda's mother, Lucille Cook, and the chief of police, Danning Alexander, heard the news from a reliable source. For this reason, Matilda's name has been cleared and has been invited back home as of now, with a grudging respect from Mr. Alexander himself._

_As well as possibly saving the young Opanella's life, Mattie has helped her find a new family as well. A friend of Mattie's mother, Elizabeth Rooney, admitted to a reliable source that she had always wanted somebody to keep her company, and that Mattie finding Opanella "instead of one of those sour old foster home people was truly a blessing for the both of them." Elizabeth adopted Opanella on the spot, and left the both of them thanking their lucky stars for this wondrous girl._

"_Mattie, if you're out there, reading whatever it is these weird reporters have written, come on home. We miss you." -Nathaniel Benson._

I push the muffin away, uninterested now.

*O*

The flight home is just as bad as the first one. Eliza and Nell hug me both for a prolonged period of time. Eliza, who has apparently always wanted a child to call her own, adopted Nell less than twelve hours after her mother died. I think I am leaving them both in good hands: each other's'.

Of course, when it is my turn to embark they both sniffle and wave me off towards the gate, teary-eyed. I pretend I can see them watching my plane lift off and smiling.

The time I spend in the air is filled with a baby crying and some man trying to flirt with the flight attendant. It's bad. Really, I can't be happier when I disembark and see Mother waiting anxiously at baggage claim. The worry lines around her eyes have deepened in the time I spent away. Then she sees me and it's like magic. The crinkles in her forehead seem to dissipate when I hug her and apologize and promise to be a better person, because Nell changed me.

I guess I used to think the people with the material things had it all. Nell had next to nothing after her mother died.

Mother takes my bag and guides me over to her beat-up old Camry. I have just buckled myself into the passenger seat when Mother asks me, "So, the chief of police mentioned something about a snapping turtle in the bathroom. Wanna tell me about this?"

I don't think I do.

*O*

_This is it, boys, this is war - what are we waiting for?__  
__Why don't we break the rules already?__  
__I was never one to believe the hype__  
__Save that for the black and white__  
__Try twice as hard and I'm half as liked,__  
__but here they come again to jack my style_

_-_Some Nights, Fun

WORD COUNT: 4,380

**EDIT_12.16.13, 6:35 p.m.**

**Okay. So I'm posting this **_**again**_** on this account. Why, you ask. Because I – the master of clumsy and awkward – performed a royal screw up and accidentally plastered my name (first and last) on my story. And then when I noticed, had a panic attack, and went to change the chapter, I accidentally replaced my story Broken Mirror with the edited document.**

**I just now noticed this, and figured it would be better to just delete them both and repost them from scratch. Sorry for the inconvenience.**


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